My son froze my cards so I couldn’t even buy groceries. He thinks he controls our $42 million empire—but one call from the bank made me realize he has no idea what I’m about to do. First my credit card declined. Then my debit.

Desmond took out his phone, tapped it twice, and held it up. “Actually, we can move forward under the power of attorney you signed before your surgery last year.”

I stared at the document on the screen, my own signature unmistakable at the bottom. I remembered the day I signed it. Gallbladder surgery. Routine, my surgeon said. I would be out for a few days, groggy on painkillers, maybe not at my sharpest. Desmond had brought the paperwork in with a tone of dutiful practicality. “Just in case anything needs a quick decision while you’re recovering, Mom.” I signed because he was my son and because, by then, I had grown used to helping smooth everyone’s life through paperwork.

“You had authority if I was incapacitated,” I said. “I am not incapacitated.”

Karen gave a little laugh. “That’s where things get uncomfortable. Desmond’s attorney believes there’s enough documentation to establish cognitive decline.”